Shellie Vandersluis

It’s that special week when no one knows what day it is but everyone feels vaguely guilty.

Every unread book I own is quietly judging me, but also rooting for my potential.

This is the season where I light a candle, put on soft music, and stare at my responsibilities romantically.

If I say “festive burnout” out loud, does it count as self-awareness or just resignation?

Nothing like pretending to “take a break” while checking 14 group texts about logistics.

There’s always that one coworker who schedules a “quick sync” at 4:58 PM on a Friday. You know who you are.

Every adult secretly wants someone to tell them “you did enough.” So here it is. You did enough.

My wrapping paper technique is best described as “emotional.”

I told myself I’d make homemade gifts. What I actually made was stress.

I’m looking for other writers who think a “balanced life” means writing at 2am, forgetting laundry exists, and calling that character arc progress.

Just burned my tongue on hot cocoa because I lack impulse control and seasonal patience.

The holiday playlist says “cheerful,” but my spirit says “faintly vibrating.”

I’m starting to understand why the elves don’t talk much. They’re tired.

People say chronic illness makes you stronger. Personally, I think it just makes you weirder, wiser, and oddly resourceful.

Nothing says holiday spirit like spending $200 to recreate childhood joy for ten minutes.

Every holiday movie is like: “she quit her job and moved to a small town bakery.” Okay. Where do I sign up.

Love that we all collectively agreed to lie about how much work we’re getting done right now.

December brain is wild. I’m either overly sentimental or aggressively tired. There’s no middle.

My December workout plan is called “carrying too many shopping bags in one trip.”

Currently living in that weird time-space between holidays where calories and calendars don’t exist.

Writing connects humanity. Especially when we’re all typing “sorry for the delay” in unison.

Chronic illness is like living in a body that’s both the problem and the project. Some days, I’m grateful for the progress. Other days, I just want a refund.

Nothing makes me feel more alive than watching my packages travel to six different states before arriving here.

I just opened a gift I bought for myself to “wrap later.” Past me really gets me.

I keep telling myself “next week will calm down,” like that’s ever been true in December history.

December snuck up like, “surprise, it’s the end of the year and you’ve done absolutely everything and nothing at once.”

If you need me, I’ll be reheating mashed potatoes like it’s a personality trait.

Grateful for growth, caffeine, and surviving another month of pretending I know what I’m doing.

Writing is cheaper than therapy and slightly more socially acceptable than yelling into the void.

Just realized the “holiday spirit” is mostly caffeine and mild panic.